Bottle of Whiskey
by Blynneda
Summary: McCoy is particularly distraught at losing a patient and gets drunk.


Bottle of Whiskey

**          Dr. McCoy had locked himself in his personal quarters approximately fifty-three hours ago and hadn't been heard from since.  It was exactly fifty-six hours and fourteen minutes ago that Ensign Franklin, of the medical department, died under McCoy's care.  Several times throughout the past three days, his staff members stopped by with a meal or a reassuring word, but he ignored all calls.**

          Captain James Kirk stood beside the door leading to McCoy's quarters with Spock and Nurse Chapel.  The captain had the authority to enter any personal quarters if he deemed it necessary, and Kirk thought it imperative in this case.

          "Why'd he run off like that, Nurse?" Kirk asked.

          "I-I'm not sure, really.  He was really upset by Manny's sudden death.  Manny was one of his best students here.  He was working toward his doctorate," Chapel answered, nearly crying.

          "Yes.  We're all saddened by his death," Kirk said.

Even Spock appeared touched.  "Ensign Franklin was a talented young man."

          Kirk shook his head.  "But why has Bones totally withdrawn himself?"

          "That, I believe, is what we intend to discover," Spock replied.

          "Yes.  So without further ado—Nurse, do you have that hypo ready, just in case?"

          She clutched the device in her hand and nodded.

          "Ready?"  Kirk realized he was stalling.  "Here goes nothing.

          "Computer, open personal quarters to Leonard H. McCoy, on orders of Captain James T. Kirk."  The door glided open and Kirk walked confidently inside, Spock and Nurse Chapel closely following.

          Before Kirk could even search the room for McCoy, the man growled from a corner, "Jim, get the hell out of here."

          "Bones!"  

McCoy was slumped on the floor behind his bed, head bowed between his knees.  His southern drawl slurred with the speech of intoxication.  "Give a man a chance to mourn in private."

Kirk rushed to the doctor's side and nearly tripped on a pair of empty glass whiskey bottles.  Nurse Chapel quickly moved behind Kirk, hypo spray at ready.  Spock remained just inside the doorway, hands folded behind his back.  He quietly noted shards of glass from a third (and fourth?) bottle strewn along the floor opposite McCoy, apparently after being thrown against the wall.

"Bones.  You've got to talk to me," Kirk said softly.

McCoy lifted his head.  His blue eyes were dulled to a tarnished grey, red-rimmed and bloodshot, framed by heavy dark bags.  His hair was slicked back from his forehead messily, as if he'd been running his heads through it.  His wrinkled surgeon's frock lay in a heap on the bed, leaving him dressed in a black undershirt damp with sweat and spilled alcohol.

McCoy tried what may have been intended as a smile, but came out as a wincing baring of his teeth.  "You wanna talk?  I killed a man, Jim.  There's nothin' more to say."

Kirk exchanged a worried glance with Spock.  "How about you come and sit over here and we can talk about this."

McCoy didn't move.

Kirk took on a tougher stance.  "Doctor, you've been lax in your duty, missing shifts.  Now, stand up and get over here!  That's an order!"

McCoy shook his head and tucked his chin into his chest again.  Kirk nodded to Spock, who glided to McCoy's side and lifted him up by an arm.  He pulled McCoy to his feet easily, but McCoy swayed dangerously.  Spock kept a firm grasp on him and led the staggering, but unresisting, doctor to his bed.

As he sank to the bed, he shoved Spock's hand away.  "Keep your filthy Vulcan hands off me."

Spock stepped back, face impassive.

Kirk stood directly in front of McCoy, arms crossed on his chest.  "How much have you had to drink?"

McCoy shrugged.  "Your guess is as good as mine."

Kirk tapped a bottle aside with his foot.  It stopped at the wall with a heavy clunk.  "Two bottles?"

Spock nodded to the broken shards.  "There are the remains of two more, I believe."

Nurse Chapel sat down beside McCoy and held a tricorder up to his chest.  "High blood alcohol content," she reported.  "I'm reading 0.23 percent.  He's had quite a bit, fairly recently."

"Why is this bothering you so much, Bones?  You lost a man—a good young officer—but it wasn't your fault.  You've lost other people before.  Why's this affecting you so much?"  Kirk placed a hand on McCoy's shoulder, forcing him to look up.

His eyes looked wild and tired at the same time.  "He shouldn't have died, Jim.  He had already stabilized from…whatever it was, and then I left the room.  I left him alone, and he just died!  I _killed Ensign Franklin."_

"No, Bones, you did all that you could for him," Kirk consoled him.

"I killed him," he repeated, more subdued this time.

Kirk looked at Spock, who raised an eyebrow.  He walked to the door and gestured for Nurse Chapel to follow.  "You've got six hours to be ready for duty again, Bones.  Your next shift starts at 0800 hours.  Make sure you're sober by then."  Kirk and Chapel walked out the door, but Spock stayed behind, watching McCoy.

McCoy sat with his forehead in his hands for a full minute until he muttered, "What the hell are you staring at, you damned green-blooded, uncaring bastard?"

Spock didn't even blink.  "I imagine you will require my assistance."

McCoy chuckled bitterly.  "I'd ask you to get me another bottle, but I'm all out."

Spock hesitated.  "You shall probably wish to clean yourself.  You have a strong scent of alcohol over you."

"Is that why you're here?  To bathe me?"

Spock ignored the comment.  "I do not believe you are at fault for Ensign Franklin's death."  He waited for an angry response, but none came.  So he continued, "Have you examined the results of the autopsy?"

"What do _you think?"_

Spock walked over to the computer station and linked into the medical records.  "Dr. McFadden discovered an unknown agent in Ensign Franklin's liver.  He believes that agent is responsible for his death."

"_I am responsible for his death.  Why are you here, Spock?"_

"I am here to use your medical expertise to learn what that foreign agent is and, if necessary, how to counteract it if another becomes infected with it."

"What difference does it make?" McCoy replied, uninterested.

Spock returned to McCoy's side.  "The difference may be the life of another of your patients.  Ensign Franklin's death was _not your fault, but if anyone else dies from this because you ignored it, it will be your responsibility.  I advise you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start thinking logically."_

"Oh, I'm sorry, Spock.  Humans feel grief at the death of a friend.  It's one of our shortcomings, I'm afraid."

"Much to your disadvantage."

"I suppose you won't mourn my death," McCoy said, looking up at Spock.

Spock met his gaze unflinchingly.  "I shall mourn the death of any extraordinary officer.  You, however, are at risk of a court martial for dereliction of duty."

"Jim's not going to court martial me."

"Anyone else would do so.  I will raise such charges myself if you do not follow my orders now."

"Don't threaten me with your rank."

"Doctor.  _Bones," Spock began, the word sounding strange on his tongue.  "I believe we are at the edge of an important discovery here.  I have never before seen such an organism as that found in Franklin's liver, nor has Dr. McFadden, nor has anyone within the ship's computer records.  And I believe it to be potentially dangerous, to all humankind."  McCoy looked up with a surprised expression._

"Let me see that autopsy."  McCoy tried to stand too quickly, swayed, and collapsed onto the bed again.  Spock moved to assist him.  He tried to wave him off.  "I'm fine.  Just moved too fast."  He almost fell forward into Spock's chest.  Spock straightened him up.

"You don't need my help," he commented dryly, and led him over to the computer console.

McCoy rubbed his eyes.  "God, I could use some coffee.  Or sleep."

"Or a shower," Spock added.  McCoy favored him with a glare, then turned to read.  After a few moments of scanning through the autopsy report, he sat up and massaged his neck with one hand.

"Good Lord," he murmured under his breath.  "I've got to get down to the lab."

"Doctor," Spock said calmly.  "May I remind you that you are—"

"Drunk?"  McCoy laughed.  "Sure I am.  The captain wants me back at work."

"In six hours.  And sober."

McCoy shrugged.  "I'll be sober by then.  Probably."

Spock stepped forward.  "I have an herb, indigenous to Vulcan, which counteracts the effect of alcohol and includes a mild stimulant."

McCoy raised an eyebrow.  "What are you, a doctor?"

"It is very effective.  I can bring some leaves…while you clean yourself."

McCoy sniffed the air.  "What's your problem?  I thought Vulcans had better ears, not noses."

Spock straightened himself and headed for the door.  "Vulcans are superior to humans in nearly every way.  I shall return shortly."  He managed to slip out before McCoy could think of a comeback.

By the time Spock returned, McCoy had showered and changed his pants.  A towel draped across his bare shoulders, he stepped back into the main quarters to find a steaming cup of tea and a yellow microtape sitting on the table, Spock poring over something on the computer.

McCoy scowled.  "What the devil is that smell?"

"_Hareet_ herb.  The name is not Vulcan.  It is generally considered useless to Vulcans."

"Yeah, Vulcans don't have much use for something that stops the effect of alcohol," he said, taking a sip and grimacing.  "Are you sure this works?"

"Yes.  The stimulant serves to gradually return the body chemistry to normal."

"Terrific.  That doesn't change much."

Spock moved over to the table facing McCoy.  "May I inquire…why do humans overindulge in a depressant such as alcohol?"

McCoy looked over the rim of the cup with hooded eyes.  "I guess sometimes we find it necessary to deal with something difficult.  Intoxication is a distinctly human condition, I suppose, to help forget painful memories.  It's, uh, an immature but effective way of dealing with stress."  He met the Vulcan's gaze steadily.

McCoy broke away suddenly, muttering half to himself.  "I suppose I'd better get dressed."  He walked over to his closet and opened the door to reveal a few sets of normal work uniforms, his dress blues, and civvies tucked into the back.  "Well," he drawled, "should I wear the blue shirt or the blue shirt?"

Spock paused, probably giving him a strange look, and said, "I recommend the blue one."  He returned to the computer with the microtape, noticing the tea was nearly gone.

With a flourish, McCoy pulled one out, "If that's the one you like, that's the one I'll wear!"

"I also brought a microtape with more test results on the unknown agent.  Dr. McFadden is considering naming it after Ensign Franklin."

That sobered McCoy.  "There's an honor I'd rather not have."

Spock continued, "I believe my earlier suspicions were confirmed, in that this agent poses a serious threat to humans, and all similar humanoids.  Although I imagine," he added dryly as McCoy read over his shoulder, "Ensign Franklin's liver was likely in better condition when he died than yours is now."  He glanced up at McCoy to gauge his reaction, but the doctor was staring intently at the screen.

"You're right, Spock.  This thing could wipe out all life as we know it if it spreads."  But he was smiling gleefully as he said it.  He clapped a hand onto Spock's shoulder, nearly causing him to flinch.  "And I know how to stop it!  Come on!"

*     *     *

Kirk strolled into sickbay at 0805, just after his own shift ended, preparing to face a sullen, angry, drunk man rolling into work.  He hadn't checked in on McCoy at any point during the past six hours, although he could have.  He also realized that he hadn't seen Spock since their confrontation with McCoy.  Spock wasn't officially on duty, but he often spent his off time on the bridge, occasionally training crewmen in his equipment.  Kirk had thought Spock followed him out, but when he discovered that he hadn't, he decided to leave it alone.  Sometimes things had a way of working themselves out without him.

What he expected when he entered had nothing to do with what he actually encountered.

McCoy walked over to him with a Cheshire cat grin.  "Mornin', Jim.  How you doin'?"  Without waiting for an answer, he continued casually, "I don't mean to brag, but I just saved all of humanity."

"Really," Kirk commented mildly, his mind whirling.  What had happened to the despondent, guilt-ridden man of just hours earlier?

Spock emerged from the adjoining lab.  "He is quite correct, Captain.  With my assistance, of course," he added pointedly.

Kirk looked back and forth between the two.  Even Spock looked pleased.  "You saved us all from…what?"

"Manny Franklin's Disease," McCoy responded proudly.  "After the microorganism that attacks the liver and injects a toxin into the bloodstream.  Once that toxin goes through the blood, the heart goes into tetanus so fast there's no way to stop it.  Unless you inject a certain substance into the liver."

Kirk glanced at Spock, but he wasn't offering any explanations.  "And what would that substance be?" he asked uneasily.

If McCoy's smile could've gotten any wider, it would have.  "Alcohol!"

Kirk let out a relieved laugh.  "So, you were just doing research, Bones?"

McCoy looked back at Spock.  "Sure, that's what I'll call it.  It was really Spock who did the important part—bringing it to my attention."

"One more for the record books, then?" Kirk said with a smile.

*     *     *

The service was solemn but celebratory of a talented young officer's career, cut tragically short but contributing to science and the safety of humanity.  Manny Franklin was posthumously awarded Starfleet High Honors.

Dr. McCoy, among others in the medical department and the captain himself, praised his devotion to duty.  They later found that Franklin had obtained the disease from a culture he was studying for his doctorate.  Whether he discovered the foreign agent by accident or created it himself in his experimentation was never definitively determined, but officially the former explained it.

McCoy walked back to sickbay, somewhat angry at himself for nearly breaking down in front of most of the crew—and Spock, for God's sake!—but for once not entirely uncomfortable in his dress uniform, at least.

Spock pulled into step beside him.  "Are you…better now, Doctor?"

McCoy spared him a sideward glance.  "Are you worried about me, Spock?"

Spock lifted his chin with dignity.  "I am simply assuring the safety of the ship as a whole.  You _are_ an essential officer."

"Of course."  McCoy looked over at Spock.  "We don't make a bad team, do we?"

"On rare occasions, perhaps," Spock admitted.

They walked together in silence for a moment.  McCoy smiled and asked, "Say, you wouldn't happen to have any more of that Vulcan herb, would you?"


End file.
